


sing until your lips bleed & play till your hands ache

by Sharkchimedes



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Republic Commando Series - Karen Traviss
Genre: Gen, Mando'a, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, brief descriptions of order 66, cultural speculation/headcanons, not favorable towards the new mandalorians (or death watch), starts with a brief scene pre-order 66 but the rest happens after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24366595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharkchimedes/pseuds/Sharkchimedes
Summary: Wad'e is tired of Vau's moping and refusal to do anything about the way Scorch is spiraling off and away from his brothers and decides to handle it the only way he knows how: a bit of manual labor and accidental adoption.Or: a take on Wad'e Tay'haai as a songmaster, and his journey to passing that on.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Wad'e Tay'haai & RC-1262 | Delta-62 | Scorch, Wad'e Tay'haai & Rav Bralor
Kudos: 6





	sing until your lips bleed & play till your hands ache

**Author's Note:**

> yall ever hc something so hard when you were in middle school and read something for the first time, held onto that hc through high school, and only discovered as a college graduate that yeah no, that wasn’t canon the whole time? That's how i got the og idea that wad’e was a historian of some form. I think I first started this fic sometime last summer, and I recently got the inspiration to finish it. so here it is!
> 
> mando'a translations are in the footnote, although i don't think there are very many that you need to be able to translate off the top of your head/memory in order to understand what's happening. i may also have missed adding a couple to the list, for which i apologize!

Wad'e knew he didn't belong here. It had been obvious since he'd stepped foot off the transport from Keldabe. It had been obvious stepping _onto_ the transport from Keldabe. And when Rav had told him that the whole idea of accepting the invitation to go was “Absolutely _dikuutla,_ Wad’e, don’t you dare.” _And_ when Kal had dispatched one of the Nulls several weeks prior to vet the people Wad’e had contacted for the invitation to go, just to make sure Wad’e wasn’t about to step into a mudhorn trap.

Ah well. Here he was. 

Sundari was a city of alabaster stone with a holo-generated sky, full of sharp angles and crisp stone you were afraid to touch for risk of blemishing it. The people walked about with a nearly matching shade of alabaster skin, pale eyes and pale hair in pale robes who looked at Wad'e like a _jetti_ creche would eye a Sith, how a strill saw a anooba near it's nest. They seemed even more delicate than the city, particularly with how they did shy away from him as he left the spaceport and headed into Sundari itself. 

It likely didn’t help his cause that he was obviously from the north. His dark skin and hair were enough proof without needing to see the black lines on his cheeks and across his eyes, and without his _beskar_ bucket on all of that was plainly visible. And if you truly claimed to be blind to the tendencies of old Mandalorian blood, Wad’e had the walk of a seasoned soldier, aware and alert, and with the ability to stalk like a hunting strill. Nothing about him belonged to this pale, sealed world.

So he forced his face to twitch into a friendly smile, and wished not for the first time that he could wear his bucket. Wad’e had been in places before where the necessity of the mission dictated he suspend his comfort and leave it clipped to his belt, but this was by far the least safe he’d felt without it. He’d had to entrust his _beskar’gam_ to Rav before leaving, though he had kept his armorweave suit that usually went beneath it. Being in this city, born of attacks against his people, where he could be arrested if he looked too much like the true mandalorian he was, he felt like he had a blaster's barrel pressed to his neck. Plenty of people wore undersuits, even of the heavier protective sort. 

Now, Wad'e had nothing against their being here, of course. The glass grit sands of Mandalore's equator were no longer fit for _vode_ ; Mandalore had always been an ever mixing vat of _tihaal_ . If the so-called “New Mandalorians” wanted the glass grit wastes created by the bombing of his homeworld (that it was Wad’e’s private opinion that they had likely _caused_ ), then they could have at it. He much preferred the northern forests where he and Rav had grown up.

But he did have everything against the way they were determined to wipe his “sort” from the face of the galaxy.

It was almost impressive, he had to admit, how these _areutii_ in the south had set about waging their violent war of abolishment on the _Mando'ad_ without raising a weapon. They’d silenced their language, their customs, and driven those who would not convert into the north or off world to true nomadhood. 

They had done more damage in a few generations than any other attack had done in millennium.

Once, he thought he spotted someone out of the corner of his eye who also had the telltale coloring of a Northerner, but as soon as they caught sight of him they had hurried away into the crowd, vanishing. It had twisted something up inside of him, the same part of his gut that turned when he thought too long on the work he had done as a member of the _cuy’val dar_. It was a feeling like sludge catching at his feet and turning his stomach.

Just another casualty of the Southerners: beyond their first captures and occupations, they had made it so difficult for some clans to keep to the old ways that they felt no choice than to leave the way behind and move to the deserts to join the old invaders.

Wad’e just wanted to see what had survived the long con invasion, which was apparently _far_ too much to ask from the supposedly civilized southerners. It had taken agonizingly long just to get approval for his visit at all, let alone to see a records hall. He was fairly sure the only reason he’d even been allowed in _was_ because he could be counted as a historian.

Maybe someone here had done their research on him after all, and thought that the son of the _laar’alor_ sworn to their last _mand’alor_ would be easy to sway to their ways and carry that back with him to the North. _See what the_ manda'lor _brought upon your father; had he not followed him to war, he might still live_ , they'd say, and expect Wad'e to go all weepy and disintegrate like a wet field ration.

Doubtful. Particularly since Wad’e didn’t like or care for them. 

And he wasn’t exactly on friendly terms with Fenn Shysa, who was the closest thing to a _mand’alor_ they had these days. He was healthily skeptical that Shysa would listen to him on any points, regardless of whether he was the _laar’alor_ or not. 

The man really seemed to only listen to Kal when it came to the _Cuy’val Dar_ , and those conversations mostly one-sided and involved the words “stop” and “asking me” and “to help you with this week's insane idea”.

Anyhow.

He had to keep himself from grimacing when the record-keeper pronounced his name as “Weed Taheel”, forcing himself into a friendlier version of parade rest. _You can't stab them. You can't stab them. You_ can't _stab them_ , he told himself as the woman plastered on an overly friendly smile and escorted him down to the small section of records labelled as “Northern”.

Wad’e tapped at his _bes’bev_ the only piece of his kit he’d managed to get in with him. The keeper eyed him nervously, and cleared her throat when she noticed the odd, thin edge. 

Wad’e sighed and let his arm drop.

The whole thing was pointless. The records he was allowed to see were all sanitised, incomplete, and the woman kept making pointed comments about how it would’ve been much easier to keep the records intact if they had surrendered such things more readily.

Wad’e reminded himself that his _Fa’buir_ would have been very disappointed in him if he stabbed any kind of record-keeper, and that it would be very messy to clean up. He- and the rest of the _Cuy’val Dar_ who would inevitably drag themselves into his mess like a stumbling pack of strills- didn’t need that kind of attention.

So he forced another grimacing smile and thanked her for her oh-so valuable time, and left.

It was the last time he saw Sundari as more than a speck in the white sands, but not the last time he saw Mandalore married by invaders. 

All things considered, Wad’e wished he hadn’t bothered. 

* * *

(Years later, Wad’e would revise his feelings on the New Mandalorians to include pity as well. After all, the Empire didn’t care what kind of “mando” you were: they were all under the Empire’s thumb now.

And the New Mandalorians had set themselves right up where the Empire wanted them, too. In trying to keep the True Mandalorians away from the _beskar_ mines, they had made themselves prime targets. 

Second verse, same as the first, Wad’e mused.)

* * *

They fled Coruscant in a burning terror, fire licking up and at their heels, with screams in all their ears and blood splattered over their armor. 

Wad’e had been working on cross-training, though it had been suspended for… some reason. All operations within the commando barracks had been temporarily postponed.

So he had stood on the parade grounds, playing a tune for the shinies. It was like Mereel had relayed to him: the shinies coming in these days didn’t know any of the songs that were learned on Kamino. Wad’e had worked them through the _Dha Werda Verda_ , and was playing it again when he paused.

The air had been thick, and tense, and Wad’e had suddenly known, with a chilling and deep clarity, that whatever _this_ was, _this_ was what Kal and the Nulls had been preparing to run from for months now. All Wad’e could do, trapped in another part of the GAR’s massive complexes on the Republic homeworld, was hope they were already on their way out. 

Gilamar came down from the upper level of the barracks, his medic demonstration also cancelled for the day, and stood by him, and they looked out over the city. Gilamar nodded at him, and Wad’e suspected that the expression on the other man’s face was somber.

They were calm and still. Whatever this was, they would meet it here. They had no choice.

And then everything went to _osik._

Wad’e was forced to shoot a trooper to get himself and Gilamar away in the sudden chaos and is nearly sick in his helmet. He shoved Gilamar in front of him and pressed the doctor on. Wad’e might have been the last of the bloodline of the _laar’alors_ , but he would gladly lay down his own life if it would save Gilamar’s. 

Anyone could sing the songs, but their little patchwork of clans and _cuy’val dar_ and deserters only had one true medic. Wad’e ushered him onwards after jamming his spear into the man’s hands, laying cover behind them as they made for an exit.

Wad’e spotted ARC-007 and the commando who always tailed him by the exit, both t-visors looking back towards the barracks and the two _cuy’val dar_ tearing towards them, blastfire licking at their heels.

Whatever was going on, the Commandos and ARCs didn’t seem to be affected by it, and ARC-007 let the two _Cuy’val Dar_ run by him, hand gripping the commando’s katarn-armored elbow.

They seemed as confused as they were, standing adrift in the madness.

(It’s only later that he finds out that all of the sergeants' names had been dumped into the warrant list, and most have an oil-slick implication of _dead is better than alive_. Kal and Vau are at the top of the list of Mandalorians, but Wad’e finds his name not far below them. 

The commander of the Nulls, one of Jango’s former hands, and a _laar’alor_ indeed.

Even the trainers that had worked for the GAR after the _cuy’val dar_ had are on the list. Taking out anyone who won’t heel in and knows anything about the army’s inner workings, Wad’e supposes. Or would be able to say anything about the coup.

It explains the shinies well enough, anyway, when Prudii tells them over their first meal at Kyrimorut about the chips. It seems that all of the CC and CT designations have them, which leads to a very panicked Corr, who’s hemet comms were out at the time of the fatal order being issued, demanding Gilamar operate as quickly as possible.)

Jango’s voice echoed in his head as they gunned it out of the system, the stars fading away, and wondering in the blue-streaked dark if they were the only ones to make it. 

_Kandosii sa kyr'am ast,_

_Troan teroch jetiise a'den,_

_Duraan vi at ara'nov._

_Vode an, ka'rta tor._

_Kote._

* * *

Delta Squad had arrived a few days ago, covered in soot and blood and shattered katarn-class armor, with haunted eyes and a _dar'manda_ boy from Arcian Micro in tow. The Nulls quickly crowded in to disarm the kid and herd him to Gilamar’s makeshift operating theatre while the three Kamino-born commandos shucked their gear. 

Most of Kyrimorut’s population had been asleep at the time, or at least resting, so it wasn’t until the next day that word really got around of the newcomers to Kyrimorut.

Having lived with the haunting spectre that was Vau Vau on and off for several months now, everyone already knew better than to say the name "Sev". Wad’e watched from the shade of one of the out buildings as the squad slowly ventured out the next morning, lost and blinking in the pale northern sun. They seemed both harder and also weaker around the edges than Wad’e could remember from when he had known them briefly on Coruscant. 

They were not alone in that. Everyone was nursing trauma, these days. 

Boss and Fixer seemed to be dedicating their adjustment to the fields, following Levit out each morning and not coming back until well after dark, covered in dirt and flecks of blood from cuts from the equipment. 

The _dar’manda_ _ad’ika_ , bless his heart, followed whoever would accept help around like a strill puppy, getting underfoot but also getting the pity of most of Kyrimorut. Any thoughts of his being somehow connected back to the Empire were discarded, especially with the bandage still stuck to his head. It was painfully endearing, like the sort of extra syrupy uj cake a _buir_ gave you when you scraped yourself up.

Scorch was… adrift. He seemed to be living somewhere in his own head, and when Fi had tried to approach him and break the tension with a joke like he would have before, even at the risk of getting himself punched, Scorch had simply blinked at him. It had shaken Fi pretty bad, and Omega Squad hadn’t tried to reach out to him again. Niner was still on bedrest himself, and Darman wasn’t leaving his- or _Kad’ika’s_ side- so Atin and Corr retrieved their shaken broken and retreated back to Niner and Darman.

Wad’e couldn’t explain _why_ he was so concerned- why he was concerned at _all_ \- but he kept an eye on Scorch.

* * *

Over the coming months, everyone started settling more and more into their new post-war lives. 

Vau was still among the _cuy’val dar_ who were staying on Mandalore, having returned from Kashyyyk once more ashen and with blaster burns maring his jet armor. Boss and Fixer had gone with him, desperate to keep an eye on their former trainer and to bring him back alive. They weren’t willing to lose another in the tense forest. They seem... somehow, less haunted than they had been when they left.

Maybe, for them the return reassured them that while they missed Sev and would forever carry his name and his death with them, they could not have saved him. That he had truly marched on without them, and wasn’t suffering somewhere in the trees. Something like how Wad’e had released the many complicated emotions about Jango after the _Mand’alor_ died.

Scorch hadn’t gone with them, and when Boss and Fixer approach him, Wad’e can tell the conversation is stiff, stilted. He may not know much about Delta, but he did know that out of them, Scorch and Sev had been a package duo. The other two may care for Scorch, but they can’t fill that void in him.

Boss and Fixer may be slowly picking themselves up, slogging their way out of the mud, but their _vod_ is drowning in it.

Wad’e frowned, and watched Vau disappear into the main house.

Someone needed to do something about it, if Vau wasn’t, Wad’e decided. Rav had her own business to attend to, Mij was trying to play doctor for a whole host now and was training several new medics out of their little pack of deserters, Kal had his own problems too. 

So he would do it.

* * *

The next morning, when Scorch came into the dining room, Wad’e made sure he was already there, polishing his _bes’bev_. He had finished his meal a few minutes before, and now had his kit spread out in front of his seat at the long table made of veshok wood.

Most of the rest of the morning risers have already done so, and taken whatever breakfast they want out with them to eat while they start on their chores, or to sit down by the lakeside and take a few minutes to just breathe and watch the waves.

Wad’e knew that Scorch hadn't been doing that, likely trying to avoid most of them. So he’d made a point to be there, and when the man came in and froze when he saw Wad’e at the long table, Wad’e gave him a nod. “ _Su'cuy, ad’ika_.”

“... Sergeant Tay’haai.” Scorch said, with a cautious confusion. But the man went and got his breakfast, and after a moment’s hesitation, sat a few seats down the long table from him, but on the same side. He must’ve decided that sharing the space with Wad’e was preferable to taking his meal elsewhere and risking encountering his brothers or any of Kyrimorut’s other residents.

Wad’e kept polishing his _bes'bev,_ making sure to seem disinterested or at least companionable to the silence, glancing occasionally down at Scorch to check his progress through his meal. When it seemed Scorch was nearly done, Wad’e made a show of placing his _bes'bev_ down on the table, stretching and rubbing at his neck.

“Scorch, might I ask a favor?” He let himself finally look at the younger man again, keeping his posture and face relaxed and open.

Scorch was looking at him again with that same wary curiosity. “Sir?”

Wad’e resisted the urge to remind him that Wad’e was his senior in age and by other titles only, not by being his boss or overseer, and gestured towards his _beviin_ where it was leaning against the wall behind him. “I could use some help polishing my spear- my shoulder is aching something fierce this morning.”

That wasn’t really a lie; Wad’e did have an old pain from an injury years ago he’d taken in battle, when his shoulder had been wrenched hard from its socket and likely never truly righted. What he wouldn’t have given to have Mij’s expertise _before_ they’d met on Kamino. Usually, Wad’e would either ignore it or filch a painkiller if it was bad enough he couldn’t ignore it.

But it was true that he didn’t let anyone handle his kit- especially not his _bes'bev_ and his _beviin_. The only person he was usually comfortable with having either was Rav, and that was different. 

However, he needed some way to get Scorch to sit with him, and work, if only for a few minutes, and he had figured that while his _bes'bev_ was certainly his own, he could allow the commando to handle his _beviin_. It was also the larger, of course, and that meant it took longer than his flute to clean.

He watched Scorch consider the request for a moment. He was almost certain that Scorch was going to decline and offer to retrieve one of his brothers for the task instead, but finally the younger man nodded. “Sure.”

Scorch moved from his seat to the one next to Wad’e, and carefully took the _beskar_ spear in hand when Wad’e moved to retrieve it. He seemed slightly entranced at first by the traditional weapon, before Wad’e handed him his second polishing cloth and the pot of polish itself. 

Scorch looked at it for a moment, and pressed a finger into it before he swabbed a bit with the cloth and started on the _beviin_. 

* * *

It became a routine: Wad’e would wait until Scorch came in for breakfast, got it and ate, and then they sat at the table and polish Wad’e’s _beskar_ kit. Wad’e would handle his _bes’bev_ and Scorch would clean and care for his _beviin_. 

They spoke little while they both carefully drew the cloths down the _beskar_ instruments, which suited Wad’e just fine. It seemed to relax Scorch a little to have something to do, and to be able to do it with someone who didn’t expect anything more from him than the ability to wet a cloth and wipe _beskar_ with it. The work also didn’t throw any surprises at him; it was the same care each day.

When Scorch seemed comfortable with Wad’e, he started engaging him in short conversations: usually just commentary on the Kyrimorut gossip. Who was starting to see who, Jaing’s so-called mysterious gray kama, how long it would take Mird to round up the whole nanu herd if someone left the strill to its own devices in the pin. Little harmless things; nothing to do with the war.

After that, Wad’e started to carefully request his help with other tasks. Wad’e had a few chores of his own around Kyrimorut, most of which could be done with two sets of hands, and no one had assigned any to Scorch yet for the sake of treading carefully around him.

They were easy enough tasks: once a week it was Wad’e’s job to walk the vague perimeter of Kyrimorut, around the lake and through the veshok forest to the trees that marked Rav’s property and therefore her own patrol route. It took the better part of the day, and Wad’e and Scorch would take packs with dried foodstuffs and canteens to eat as they went. 

Wad’e took his _bes’bev_ with them and would practice, and started teaching Scorch how to identify each of the species that were growing in the forest, and the little songs and chants that went with them. Scorch also got a few lessons with the _beviin_ , because if he could make a decent throw and properly grip it in a fight, it would be a preferable weapon to a blaster in the trees. A missed shot could easily start a fire or alert everything and everyone in the forest to your presence; Wad’e’s _Tar’buir_ had hunted with a _beviin_ for a reason.

It was also Wad’e’s task to play once a day, for the remembrance and at sundown, as was his charge as _laar’alor_ , and he would have Scorch sit and listen and mark the measures in the dirt. It wouldn’t hurt him to have something else to pick apart than his own grief, and seeing as the lad had no musical training to speak of, but did have the keen intelligence all the clones did, sharpened by his training as a commando, he started to pick things up quickly even without the names for them.

Wad’e was also, besides Rav who had her own preparations to do, the most skilled at curing and pickling foodstuffs as they started to stock for the winter months, and was pleasantly surprised when Scorch and some of the other clones came down to the cellar to learn how it was done. All _Mando'Ade_ knew a bit of it, as part of basic survival and battle training, but Wad’e had been raised half in the customs of the northern hunters and farmers, and he had a talent for it more than Kal or certainly Mij and Vau did.

He was pleased to see Scorch starting to accept offers from others to help with things, and spending more time with his brothers, and even with Fi and A’den. 

It just took a little work, that was all. 

* * *

It was Wad’e and Rav’s to prepare dinner for the array of residents currently staying at Kyrimorut. 

They had a rotation going, much like when all the _cuy’val dar_ had been all stuck living with only each other, the _gihaal_ , and a few hundred handfuls of children when the first of the arcs and commandos started being decanted. 

It hadn’t taken long for little units to split off out of the hundred hired trainers-with the Corellians taking exclusively to themselves near immediately-and their little band of five (occasionally including a sixth in the form of Jango.)

One night, Kal and Mij would cook, usually with the nulls watching intently. Those nights tended to have slightly longer waits, as Kal would pause to show the six boys how to replicate what the two grown mandalorians were doing, and that usually led to Jaing and Meerel improvising and either a minor disaster and a lesson in what went wrong, or a success that was added in scribbles to the journal their little band was passing around.

Vau was allowed to try cooking once, brought the Tipoca City fire suppression system down on all their heads, and was promptly banned from the rotation. 

Wad’e and Rav had been the ones to take that night over after they’d finally dried themselves off- difficult to do when the apparent fire procedure was to go stand in the endless soaking rains outside the stilted city. It was probably for the best that they’d exiled Vau away from the foodstuffs; whatever he’d been _trying_ to do made Wad’e and Rav both gag and share a look before shucking the whole pan down the garbage shoot. 

But tonight, it was the two of them in the _vheh'yaim’s_ large kitchen, Wad’e carefully stripping the _behot_ from it’s stems and washing the leaves for chopping while Rav handled carving up the nuna meat. 

Rav was humming under her breath as she cut, something that Wad’e knew she’d picked up from lessons with _Fa’buir_ when they were still children in training. 

He finished with the _behot_ sprigs and went to toss the stems into the bin to be taken out to the garden, and Rav paused in her humming.

“So. You’ve taken an interest in that Delta boy- Scorch?” She asked, curiously leaking into her tone.

Wad’e hummed in response, returning to the counter he was working at.

“Wad’e, come on. I’m not going to bite.” Rav added.

“Someone needs to take an interest. He’s worse than Fi was when he first got here.” Wad’e replied, trying to keep his tone light. Rav, though, knew him better than anyone else alive, and she could definitely read the grudgingly admitted affection. “I was thinking of teaching him as a _laar’cabur._ Give him something to do that isn’t sit and stew in it all.”

“Aw, Wad’e, I think that’d be awfully _kandosii_ of you.” She said. “The poor _ad’ika_ does need someone, and I think your way of care will be good for him. Probably good to connect him with the heritage too, if he’s adrift as he is.”

“You think Vau will challenge me over it?” Wad’e chopped the _behot_ and gathered it in a bowl to hand off to her, and Rav shook her head as she took a handful and rubbed it into the nanu meat.

“ _Nayc_ \- the man’s scared of you, you know that?” Rav paused, looking at him. 

Wad’e frowned. “Scared- Of me? Why?”

She gave him an amused look and picked the knife back up to cut a thin slice of calarantrum. It was one of the first roots they’d harvested. “ _Wa’vod_ , without a true and proper _Mand’alor_ , you’re the closest thing we’ve got to a cultural icon these days.”

“Cultural- Rav, you know me, I hardly like anyone. I talk to even less.” Wad’e protested, dropping her gaze to study the marbling of the meat cuts. “Why would _Walon Vau_ find that intimidating?”

“Well, your hangups aside- Vau respects you. You know he was close to Jango.” Rav poked at him with the flat of the knife. “And Jango did name you his _laar’alor_ , whether you sit at the head of the _Mando’ad_ or not. Vau wouldn’t do anything that he thought would upset you too badly.” 

Wad’e suppressed the childish urge to whine at her. 

* * *

It had been nearly a year now, since they had fled from Coruscant with fire on their heels. Kyrimorut was well established, and they’d even found and brought home more deserters since it all began.

Not all stayed. In fact, few did these days, choosing to instead strike out by themselves. But that was understandable- most of those who stayed had ties to the clans already there.

Tonight was a celebration of life; that they had all made it this long and of _Kad’ika_ being joined by several other babies. Kyrimorut was buzzing with activity as everyone picked the open area in front of the compound spotless and worked on the feast that would follow.

Wad’e was taking a breather out by the lake, working his nerves out over the song he was planning to debut at the celebration. His nerves, no matter how old he got and how much he did the little exercises _Fa’buir_ had taught him, always skyrocketed before he showed a new composition.

Scorch had followed him, sitting on a rock a few yards away, anxiously fiddling with the bits of some device he was working on. Wad’e was confident that even with his nervous energy, that whatever it was wouldn’t explode or catch fire, but he was still keeping an eye on him out of the corner of his eye.

It seemed almost like Scorch wanted to tell him something, but Wad’e couldn’t be sure, and if he was, Wad’e would wait. He still had three measures to go anyhow, and then he wanted to recite a few of the old songs for after his own.

“Hey, Tay’haai?” Scorch asked, setting whatever the little electronic bits were aside.

Wad’e lowered his flute, deciding that he may as well move onto his recitations; his own wasn’t going to get any better if he stood here picking it apart. “Yes?”

“I heard that, well, some of the _vod_ are taking names?” Scorch said, nervous. “Some are changing their _whole_ names, and some are just getting Clan names… Gilamar took several of the medics in, and Skirata basically does it as an automatic impulse- and Bralor has _Parj_ Squad, and-”

He cut off with a choked noise, and Wad’e frowned. “And?”

“Boss said he and Fixer might be Vaus, if they can convince the Sarge to do it. I don’t- I don’t know if they can, but I don’t,” The clone looked away, out over the water, worrying at his lip, “I don’t want that.”

Wad’e hummed, waiting for Scorch to finish. The air felt like it was waiting on a tipping point.

Scorch squeezed his eyes shut, traces of tears escaping. "I- I do care about the old barv, but-"

" _Ni kar'tayl gai sa'ad._ " Wad'e said, and when Scorch broke down into tears, he hummed the epic of _Manda'lor_ Vindicated, looking out over the Kyriomunt fields and dotted figures scurrying back and forth. The lake kept lapping at the shoreline behind them, and if he listened he could hear Mird barking at some of the nuna.

Wad’e hadn’t said Scorch’s name. Not yet.

He would say it when Scorch was ready.

Something told him that one day, his _ad’ika_ would want to change it.

* * *

His _Fa'buir_ 's armor had been lost, looted from the field on which he had died for _Manda'lor_ Mereel. It had been a painful loss, not just for that of his body, but because the armor had been passed from _buir_ to _ad'ika_ for generations, handed from master songkeeper to the next. It had been made in a Neo-Crusader style; flashy these days, but still Mandalorian. There were a few holos of it that Wad’e kept saved to as many datapads and datacards as he could, along with the coveted even rarer images of his _Fa’buir_ without his bucket on. 

His _Tar'buir_ 's he had inherited from her, and with some slight adjustment to the chestguard, and it had been repainted in his own personal taste: purple- half red in memory of his _Fa'buir_ and half blue for his heritage, mixed into several shades that made up the patterns and lines of his plates. 

Maybe he’d lifted the pattern for his helmet from a holo of Jango Fett, but Wad’e was from the long and proud bloodline of the _laar’alore_ , and if Jango had minded, he’d never said it to his face when they worked together. And as far as Wad’e as concerned, it was fair play for Jango dragging him onto Kamino.

(When Jango had first come to Wad'e to offer him a position among the _cuy'val dar_ , Wad'e had laughed at him. It was the first he'd seen of the _mand'alor_ in years. 

Jango had been surprisingly patient with Wad'e laughing in his face. And then he'd tried to play the _buir_ and Wad'e had stopped laughing.

"C'mon, Tay'haai. Your father served mine- it's a decent job." Jango had kept a steady face even when Wad'e knew he was glaring at him with a dangerous intent. 

Wad'e had felt his fingers twitch towards his _bes'bev_.

"Go to _haran,_ Fett." He'd snarled, and then turned his back on his _mand'alor._

Not one of Wad'e prouder moments. 

But there was a difference between ignoring a request from the _manda'lor_ , and refusing to come when he was called on. And thus far, Jango had only offered, not commanded.

Then Jango, halfway to leaving, had turned back and said, "Oh, you might find this interesting- Rav already accepted a commision." 

Wad'e had turned and left his seat at the bar and come up on Jango, with a bemused huff. "You might've led with that, you _dikutla chaakar._ " 

Jango had given him an easy grin. "And where would the fun in that be?")

His _Fa'buir_ had _beskar'gam,_ but his mother had come from one of the hunting clans, and they hadn't had use or money for it. Most of the animals of the north knew to either keep away from the homesteads, or were taught it by the strills who were trained to keep the edges. Instead, their _beskar_ lay in his _beviin._

A spear from the hunters, a flute from the songkeepers. _Te oya'karir bal te laar, tome o’r cuun tal_.

Wad’e decided it was time that Scorch had the chance to replace his own. After all, Jusik and Fi both had full _beskar’gam_ kit now, and everyone else was either settling into civvies or had been collecting their own armor as time went on. It was time for Scorch to do the same. Wad’e had gotten his own first full kit, when he’d been training with his _buir_ , at about the age Scorch was now in Galactic Standard. 

He let Scorch decide how to handle his new _besbe._ The poor _ad'ika_ had shed his Katarn armor as fast as possible once Wad’e told him they were going to go shopping for new kit, tearing off the armorweave bodysuit under it like it was burning him alive. Scorch had pitched it into the waste, and then they’d gone into Keldabe to call a on a favor from someone Wad’e had once rescued from unsavory elements.

The result was a suit in the modern style, mostly mottled grays, similar to the katarn now sitting in a crate hidden out of sight. Now, though, there were faint spots and streaks of red, almost unnoticeable, overlaid over it and the yellow edging.

It was good kit, and it would protect Scorch when he needed it. The kid even seemed to light up when Wad’e gave an approving nod.

The need came sooner than anyone would have liked.

* * *

The Imperials had come to Mandalore. At first, they laughed it off because the new regime set about stripping the supposed “free” system down, fracturing the New Mandalorian’s broken leadership that had been faltering since the murder of their oh-so-precious Duchess.

Wad’e knew it was wrong to think ill of any who’d marched on, but that was for the _true_ and those who were _mando’ad_. He may feel some pity for the south of Mandalore, but it’s the same kind of pity he feels towards a wounded strill whining at its master. It’s nothing he’d consider composing an ode about.

It has, however, raised tensions at Kyrimorut significantly. And how could it not- they’re a living hotbed of deserters and force sensitives. It was one thing to know that half the people living on Kal’s little homestead were wanted: it was another to have the Imps starting to scope out places for garrisons in the south _and_ the north. 

Wad’e made his last trip to Keldabe with a weight on his shoulders he’s not sure will ever go away from him. And when a little _ad_ came up to him, biting back tears but with a determined look on her face as she tugged on the ends of his cape, asking for a song, he couldn’t deny her.

Wad’e made his last performance in Keldabe near one of the squares, and gathered an audience of several dozen, who raised their voices as he started them off.

It was _Dha Werda Verda_ that he finished on. 

It was probably the most times Wad’e had been called _laar’alor_ , and it eased the weight. 

* * *

The north was tense. The last time they had been in Keldabe, it had been clear that Fenn only had a weak and waning grasp on the situation. Try as Fenn might, any power he had was merely that of coming from a prominent and ancient clan, and not from the truth of being the _Manda’lor_. He was essentially the de facto leader, sure, but there wasn’t yet a real base of power behind him. 

Apparently, he’d told Kal that he was getting worried about things. The Imperials had gone from claiming the ruined false temple from a mere outpost to a full garrison, and were starting to push at Fenn for the whereabouts of known Mandalorian loyalists, both from the warrior tribes and the nomadic planet-bound alike. 

Fenn admitted that he was going to ask for a bid of good faith from the _cuy’val dar_ before, but now, he wouldn’t dare ask Kal how many were staying at Kyrimorut. Not if he wanted them to be there in case of emergency- and not to turn on him if he risked their lives and the lives of their _ade_.

That had been a standard month ago, now. Nearly two months since Wad’e had made his own final trip out that far. He’d only gone into Enciri since, and only a handful of times.

Several neighboring farming clans have been joined by relatives from Keldable and a few of the outlying villages who have made their _strategic retreats._ Enceri had made the transition from small outpost inhabited by long established locals and visitors who came for the market days and then went back to their own homes, to nearly bustling.

Everyone, it seemed, was waiting on a knife edge, or heading more northward to their ancestral homes. 

Some, even, had already left entirely, going aground outside the system, wary and remembering the lessons passed down to them by their ancestors. Wad'e knew of several clans, and former members of the _Cuy’val Dar_ who have vanished into the stars. 

Even Kyrimorut had lost members. Jusik had gone the week before, taking Scout and the former General Zey and even the reluctant _Kaminii_ with him. It had been a little strange, feeling a flash of emotion for her loss. She hadn't been awful, Wad'e supposed. And she’d certainly been less _osik_ -filled than Ko Sai.

It had been tense, the day they left. The force sensitives may have been safer going one by one to Atlis, but given the mounting pressure of each new day, they had thrown that caution away and focused on getting out and away as fast as they could. Jusik had sworn up and down for Omega Squad and the Nulls and several nervous _cuy’val dar_ that he would be safe and get back as quickly as he could without bringing the Imps down on their heads.

 _Kad’ika_ , however, had been left behind. Darman wasn’t going to surrender him, and in another life, perhaps he would have- if he didn’t have his brothers there to support him. But he did, and he was willing to fight for his son, and no one was going to stop that.

They’d received a message later to let them know that they had escaped the system without incident, but that was all they knew. Jusik did intend to return- despite the several arguments that had been had to try and convince him to stay with Atlas, the man had refused, saying that _Kad’ika_ would need him, and Arla, and that his duty was to stay with his clan.

The homestead was much quieter without them around. Their departure left a somber, tense air. 

Wad’e considered his _bes’bev_ in his hands, and decided it was time for him to go.

* * *

Wad'e looked at Rav, and felt something in his heart break. 

Over the dull roar of the Skirata boys - all six nulls, Jusik, Corr, and Fi - and the other clones who had trickled in, and Jusik with Arla watching warily from behind him, and Mij standing with Kal, Vau skulking somewhere behind them, and the other members of Clan Bralor that had come, his eyes were locked on hers.

Rav was… as close to his heart as anyone could be. She was his _runi-vod_ , the sister of his soul. She knew him better than anyone else alive in the galaxy.

Wad’e was not a romantic man, for all that he was a _laar’alor_ , but he knew that if it was possible for a soul to be in two parts, Rav held the rest of his. Probably the best of him, honestly. 

They’d grown up together, in fact. Clan Bralor’s homestead wasn’t too far from where the Tay’haai homestead was- he’d even given her the run of his family’s home when he’d left Mandalore, much like Kal had charged her with Kyrimorut. Wad’e was the last Tay’haai alive to use it, and since he had spent most of the last few decades traveling, he had felt it was much better put to use serving Rav and her Clan. 

They’d tumbled through the muddy forests, covered in smears of soil and moss, mimicking the shriekhawks in their nests. When time had come to begin learning- when they were old enough to steady blasters without missing for pure lack of bodily coordination and Wad’e only half-bowed under the weight of a _beviin_ , they had been trained as one. 

When Wibeni had been courted and married, Rav and Wad’e both had threatened her new husband while she laughed and spiked their _shig_ with the spices she had taken from the pantry for the stew. Rav had danced with him when he had sung in honor of Parja’s birth, and had anytime he’d played and she’d been there to see it. She knew the old songs as well as he did.

Wad’e had returned to Jango’s employ for her, and she had watched over his homestead when he was away again with Mij on their second commission as the _cuy’val dar_ . She was the only one left now besides him with memories of his _Fa’buir_.

She gave him a sad, knowing look, and gently took one of his hands between hers. “We’ll see each other again, Wad’e, I know it as sure as I know Jaing tanned Ko Sai for his gloves.”

 _You have to go, Wad’e. The_ laare'alore _line depends on it._ We all _depend on it._ Rav's eyes said as she let him go. 

Wad’e knew with everything in him that the only way he would be able to take Scorch and leave was that she had told him too. If she had crumbled, if she hadn’t been able to give him her blessing, he would have collapsed into her arms and would never have been able to leave Kyrimorut.

They had been parted before, sure. But after the ten years on Kamino, he hadn’t been away from her for longer than a few weeks, and even then he kept in constant communication with her. To leave Mandalore now meant a painful acceptance of the fact that he may never return. 

That may have always been a risk, but twenty years ago, it hadn’t felt so crushing. 

And he wouldn’t be able to keep in contact with her often- not if they were to protect both Kyrimorut and the surrounding clans and Enciri itself. They still were all wanted _mando’ad_ with imperial bounties on their heads, made even more so by their continued efforts to assist deserters and the presence of Jusik and _Kad’ika_. 

So he kept his gaze steady with hers, and though his heart felt like it was shredding, he gave her a reedy smile and nodded. 

They stood there for a moment, adrift in the bits and pieces of the conversations around them: Boss and Fixer telling Scorch to keep from burning his eyebrows off again as soon as he was out of their sight, A’den joining in with their anxiety-tinged ribbing; Fi saying something to Corr about how he was actually going to _miss_ Scorch, and wasn’t that weird; Mij snapping at Vau to move his _shebs_ and say something to his former trainee.

Wad’e hesitated for a moment, before he reached for Rav again, pulling her close and gently resting his forehead against hers in a _kov'nyn._ He could hear her breath hitch- or was it his own? It hardly mattered; they both felt it, regardless.

“ _K'oyacyi,_ Wad’e.” She finally said.

“ _Mhi solus dar'tome._ ” He whispered back.

* * *

Adjusting to how Scorch lived and worked without the background noise of Kyrimorut’s other residents and the enclosed space of their little borrowed ship was… interesting, to say the least.

Wad’e had of course worked with Delta during their little sting on Coruscant, but Wad’e’s role in that little endeavour had been limited to piloting and the smallest bit of recon. He hadn’t actually seen any of them up close and personal.

Wad’e’s own commandos had been an interesting lot, and he had rubbed off on them in a few ways that he hadn’t intended, not at first anyway. His trainees had a tendency to hum while they worked, though they were careful to limit it to their buckets or to when the _Kaminii_ weren’t watching. They’d also tapped out rhythms on their armor, or with their boots, and often sung _Vode An_ on the parade grounds in off hours.

He himself also had a tendency towards those activities, though he often substituted the humming for playing his _bes'bev_. If he and Rav were together, she would do the singing and he would match her strides with his own and play the support. He knew plenty of songs himself, but he had always preferred his flute if he was playing for an audience of himself.

Scorch wasn’t exactly _quiet_ : he snipped and snarked to himself occasionally, though it was subdued and often was followed by a somber, painful silence where he had reflexively expected a response. He tended to bring the sounds of tinkering with him, which weren’t unusual after enough time at Kyrimorut, and the smell of solder.

* * *

_“It’s crazy, Wad’e- you wouldn’t believe the reports we’ve been hearing."_ Kal said over the wavering connection. He can barely make out A’den, Meerel, and Kom’rrk’s voices beyond the range of the pickup, and felt a rush of relief to know at least three of the Nulls were alive and still with their _buir._

The news they've heard from Mandalore hasn't been good in the recent days. As far as Wad'e knew, Enceri and Kyrimorut hadn't faced too much yet from the growing Imperial presence, but some of the settlements closer to the border between Old Mandalore and the New...

“What sorts of things?” Wad’e asked, keying in another set of lines into his datapad. He’d started Scorch on the true versions of the chants he’d been taught, and now that Scorch seemed to have picked them up, he was moving on to the long form songs that Wad’e had first learned on himself. Hopefully, he thought with a faint spark of amusement, Scorch wouldn’t be _quite_ as pitchy as Wad’e himself had been. 

He’d driven his _Fa’buir_ to tears at his first presentation, and not because he’d remembered the verses.

 _“People are saying that the Death Watch have been nearly wiped out, and those that are left have abandoned the creed and are trying to_ rescue _people.”_ Kal said, and Wad’e could pick up some distaste in his voice, though the man mostly sounded disbelieving.

Wad’e wouldn’t believe it himself- he’d known that Pre Vizla had been killed, and in the vacuum he’d left someone had come forward and started to reign the Death Watch in, and that there were other lieutenants left veying over the remainder. Some splinters supposedly had turned from the old ways of the _Kyr’tsad_ , and he’d marked most of it up to rumor, but if Kal was hearing it from other expats...

"The Death Watch?" Scorch looked like he was straining for a connection, like something had come to mind but it was just out of his sight. 

" _Aruetyc dar'manda aru'e._ " Wad'e spat, turning his helmet away and making a reflexive sign of insult, quickly followed by one for safety for the speaker. It was a habit learned from his _Fa'buir_ 's few surviving comrades: slang that had been used in the clashes between the hated _Kry'tsad_ and the _Ara'nov Hettyc._ It meant something along the lines of “traitorous heretics” in Basic. “Do you remember Dred Priest?”

Scorch made a face like he’d smelled a womp rat. “I wish I could say no. Didn’t Gilamar stab him and dump him in a river?”

 _“That would be the one, yes.”_ Kal sighed. It seemed the incident in Keldabe was still fresh, even if Kal wasn’t still angry with his _riduur_ over it. Mostly, he seemed put out at being reminded. 

Wad’e suppressed a laugh- he’d patted Mij on the back and given him a hearty “ _Kandosii!”_ for the job. It had been one years in the making. Mij had preened and strutted about the homestead the whole week after that, despite Kal’s withering stare.

 _"W- ca-t rea-y be consi-ing,"_ Wad'e frowned as the connection went fuzzy, and then realized that it wasn't Kal talking, but Mereel, who suddenly appeared on the edge of the vid pickup, the vocal input straining to catch his voice. " _Extending_ cin vhetin _to the_ Kry-tsad _."_

"We aren't." He said, low and pointed. Or if they did, someone would have to shoot Wad'e first. He would never sit at the same table as one of _them_. He’d rather get put down like an old strill, snarling and clawing and howling. "Even if we did, they would drip blood all over it.”

Scorch was watching Wad’e curiously now. It occurred to him then that while Scorch may have known a few things about the _Kyr’tsad_ , he certainly didn’t know about Wad’e’s own history with them, the blood they had spilled of his clan, the tense promise Wad’e had made to Jango that stopped him from being the one who killed Priest. He ought to explain it to him. But not now.

 _“Of course not.”_ Kal cut in, placatingly. _“Don’t worry about that, Wad’e. It’s just news is all_.”

Wad’e was placated- for now at least, and nodded.

The call ended not too long after that- there were several pregnancies to report, several couples who had recited the vows, and the insanity that was Fenn Shysa and his ideas about how to handle the occupation.

“Well, you can tell Shysa that if he comes asking for my favor in his _di'kutla_ ideas _or_ his bid at taking up the title of _mand’alor_ , you can tell him he won’t get it.” Wad’e told him.

 _“I’ll be sure to let him know how you feel about it, if he asks.”_ Kal replied, amused. _“_ Ret'urcye mhi, _Wad’e_.”

“ _Ret'urcye mhi,_ Kal.” Wad’e repeated, and then watched as the projector flickered off.

“Well, I’m glad Kyrimorut is safe, at least.” Scorch said, sitting back.

“Next time they call, you ought to ask for your _vod’e._ ” Wad’e gave him a look, pulling out his _bes’bev_ to run his fingers through the movements.

“Yes, _buir_.” Scorch rolled his eyes, but when he saw the look Wad’e was giving him, he sighed. “Alright, alright, I’ll talk to them.”

“Good.” Wad’e smiled, dropping his gaze to his flute as he ran the movements for his newer composition. It would be ready to present soon, and Wad’e was hoping they would be able to visit one of the local underground clans so it would have a proper audience of _mando’ad_. 

“So… you and the Death Watch have a history, then?” Scorch asked after watching him work for a few minutes. The question was confident, but Wad’e could tell that he’d been working up that confidence. 

He sighed and looked back up at his son. “Yeah. We’ve got a history.”

Scorch seemed to realize that this was going to take a bit for Wad’e to gear himself up to be able to say, so the lad pulled out his own datapad and tapped idly at something while Wad’e found his strength.

“My father served under _Mand’alor_ Mereel; he was his appointed _laar’alor_ , in both birthright and friendship.” Wad’e started, lost in the past for a moment. He hadn’t thought of Jaster Mereel in… years, really, even if he sometimes had a fleeting musing about the man when Mereel Skirata did something that reminded Wad’e of his namesake.

(Wad’e knew he’d met the last _mand’alor_ before Jango several times when he was young, but he could only remember one of those meetings.

He and Rav had been teenagers, going through the awkward stages of growth spurts that threw off all of their balance and muscle memory, while simultaneously thinking themselves invincible.

They had been tearing around through the veshok trees, trying to pelt each other with sticks and little bits of mud. If either _Fa’buir_ or _ba’vodu_ Bralor caught them, they could claim they were working on their hand-eye-coordination and their aim.

In all honesty though, they were just messing around. 

Rav crowed at him when Wad’e slipped on a mossy root and went down into the needles and damp ground, unsharpened _beviin_ coming loose from it’s straps and hitting the ground ahead of him with a dull _thump_! 

“Graceful as always, _ori’vod_ .” Rav drawled, and Wad’e flung veshok needles at her as he slowly righted himself. She laughed again, but retrieved his _beviin_ for him, fastening it back to it’s harness and clasping it in place again. “You’ll want to shine that up before _Alor_ Falvas catches you, _Wa’vod_.”

“Oh, I will- especially since you’re going to help me with it.” Wad’e pushed at her shoulder, and then stilled as a voice rang out into the veshok grove.

“Rav, Wad’e- _ade_ , we have a guest!” It was _Fa’buir,_ and Wad’e winced. So much for cleaning themselves and his _beviin_ before his father saw him. Rav seemed to have the same realization, tearing off her kama and quickly rubbing it up and down the parts of the _beviin_ she could get at.

They dashed from the trees after that, not wanting to leave his _buir_ waiting, and skidded to a halt in front of him and-

Wad’e felt his stomach drop as he recognized the armor of _Mand’alor_ Mereel. The man stood tall and proud, everything a _Mand’alor_ was and exemplified. 

He felt very small, and very muddy indeed.

“Ah, _ade._ _Su’cuy,_ Wad’e- and you must be the elder of the Bralor girls.” Mereel gave a pleasant smile as he swept his gaze over the two of them. “You must be proud, Falvas, they seem to be truly dedicating themselves to their teaching.

“Yes, _alor_.” Rav nodded quickly. “My name is Rav Bralor.”

“Well, I’ll let you _ade_ get tided up before your other parents see you; it was nice to see you, Wad’e. And you, Rav.” Mereel nodded to them, before he turned back to _Fa’buir_ . “Now, Falvas, if you’d be kind enough to let me get into your _shig_ stores and we can discuss?” )

Wad’e shook the memories away. “As you may or may not know- I don’t know if this is something Jango would have encouraged us to teach you- _Mand’alor_ Mereel and the Death Watch had their own history. The Death Watch very much wanted our _Mand’alor_ line to break and be stamped out so that they could have an easier time taking over the large contingent of clans who call themselves true to the old ways. The Death Watch was, in the end, greatly driven from Mandalore and the system itself even; but at a terrible cost. Mereel was killed, Jango taken, and my _Fa’buir_ died alongside Mereel and his peacekeepers. It was a terrible loss, for everyone.”

“I hadn’t realized that Priest was just one in a long line of those _shabuirs_.” Scorch said quietly. 

“He was a weak link in a corroded, horrible chain. Mij may have taken a risk in killing him, but I will never condemn him for that. If Jango hadn’t forced me to promise not to kill the _Kry’tsad_ on Kamino, I’d have done it myself.” Wad’e scowled. “But he did, and as my _Mand’alor_ I was bond to that promise.”

“So your father fought them?” The lad quickly changed the point from memories of Dred Priest back to Wad’e’s father.

“Yes- he was a member of what they called the _Ara’nov Hettyc._ ‘The Burning Defense’. The cynics said it meant burning as in failing, but the true mandalorians saw it burning as a star, forever to stand against the darkness. The name was _Fa’buir’s_ idea.” Wad’e smiled in spite of himself at the sentiment and warmth that welled up at the thought of his father. “They were great warriors. I’m proud to be descended from them.”

“And I am, too.” Scorch said, softer, looking at him with a hint of marvel.

“Ah- yes, you are.” Wad’e fondly patted Scorch’s shoulder before he turned back to the projector to check the system readout. “ _Fa’buir_ \- his name was Falvas Tay’haai- would’ve liked you. He’d have thought you carried our name well.”

* * *

It had been over a decade now, since they’d first left Mandalore.

One day, Scorch approached Wad’e in the morning, looking nervous. Wad’e was out on the deck of their little hovel in the waste of the backwater world they had settled on a year or so back, and he was practicing his fingers on the _bes'bev_ , fingers shaking. Wad’e scowled as they did- it had started up in the last few months, and he hadn’t had the time yet to comm Mij and ask for the doctor’s opinion on it.

For a few minutes, Scorch simply stood there while Wad’e adjusted his grip and tested a few short measures of his current project: a traditional epic detailing the vacuum left behind by the death of Jango. He was thinking of calling it _Dar’Mand’alor_ or something of the like. 

Finally, the younger man’s posture seemed to shift, and even if he still appeared nervous, he seemed ready to speak, so Wad’e set aside his _bes’bev_ and looked up at Scorch.

“ _Wa’Buir_ , I- I know my name.” Scorch swallowed.

Wad’e set the flute aside, and looked up at the man. It was still odd, hearing _buir_ directed at him from anyone’s mouth. When he had taught, on Kamino or otherwise, he had always been known as the _laar’alor_ , and even those who opted for a cheeky familiarity stuck to _Wad’laar_. He hadn’t been Kal; but he hadn’t insisted on being called Sergeant Tay’haai either. Scorch had been the first to use it, and it has always surprised him.

“Eva’cyn.” His son said, “Eva’cyn Tay’haai.”

Wad’e smiled. “‘New fire’; fitting. It suits you.”

Eva’cyn gave a slightly wobbly smile back.

“Well then,” Wad’e stood, and clasped his hand to his son’s forearm, grinning, " _Ni kar'tayl gai sa'ad,_ Eva’cyn Tay’haai. And I am proud to do so. My truest heir; I entrust to you the title of _laar’alor_ once I have marched away, someday."

Eva’cyn laughed, shaking his head. “With your track record? I think that’ll be long after me, _Wa’buir_.”

* * *

Someday, the Rebellion will destroy the Empire, and the galaxy will be… not safe, but it will be easier to travel without being gunned down by the Imps. The _mando’ade_ will be legends, but will still be out there, in their boltholes and even in the veshok forests in the north.

The last two of Clan Tay’haai will return to Mandalore. The clan will be splintered, battered, older. Wad’e himself will feel the weight of the galaxy in his bones. He’ll be surprised he’s lived that long, carrying the memories of those who’ve marched on, his years with the _cuy’val dar_ , and all the years after.

He’ll have trained several more _laar’cabur_ in that time, and Eva’cyn even had his own little gaggle of apprentices he was teaching. 

_Kad’ika_ will be long since grown, and Jaing will be caring for Mird, and there will be so many more _ade_ that Wad’e has to meet.

And someday, he and Rav will lay in a tangle of blankets, resting together, quiet and both wheezing with their aging lungs. Rav will crack a joke about how he sounds like he did when he was a _ad_ just learning how to regulate his air as he played the _bes’bev_ , and he will retort that she sounds like she just chewed a whole pound of ruik root with Kal and dried her throat. 

Wad’e will press his forehead to hers and let his eyes fall closed, and breathe out his last in contentment. Rav won’t be long to march after him.

And Eva’cyn Tay’haai, the next _laar’alor_ , will pen his own epic. Of the clones, the _cuy’val dar_ , and the _Ara'nov Hettyc_ that still burned in the hearts and souls of the true mandalorians.

**Author's Note:**

> beviin - a spear/lance made of beskar  
> bes'bev - a flute made of beskar  
> besker - an extremely tough mandalorian iron  
> buir - father  
> 'ika - an affectionate suffix  
> ba'vodu - aunt or uncle  
> dikuut(la) - idiot(ic)  
> cuy'val dar - "those who no longer exist"; refers to the 100 trainers jango recruited to train the commandos  
> riduur - partner/spouse  
> Kry'tsad - the Death Watch  
> cin vhetin - "field of white snow"; a mandalorian concept of a new fresh beginning  
> Laar’alor - roughly translates to “leader of songs”  
> laar'cabur - roughly translaters to "song guardian"  
> te oya'karir bal te laar, tome o’r cuun tal - “the hunt and the song, together for our blood”  
> Ni kar'tayl gai sa'ad - “I know your name as my child.”; an adoption vow  
> Ara'nov Hettyc - roughly translates to “burning defense”  
> Ka’rta Tor - a Mandalorian chant revised by Jango for the GAR. (As ruthless as Death itself, / The pitiless face of The Jedi's wrath, / Let us look down on all who are before us. / Brothers all, one heart of justice. / Glory.)  
> Kandosii - “Nice one!”  
> evaar'la tracyn - “new fire”  
> Evaacyn  
> Kov'nyn - headbutt, “Keldabe kiss”  
> Nayc - no  
> Behot - a citric herb; also has medicinal properties  
> Su'cuy - “Hi”  
> Ret'urcye mhi - goodbye  
> Vod(’e) - brother(s)  
> Shig - a tea-like drink  
> shabuir - extreme insult - "jerk", but much stronger  
> ori'vod - close friend or older sibling  
> mand'alor - "sole ruler", leader of the Mandalorians  
> alor - leader  
> Mhi solus dar'tome - we are one when parted  
> K'oyacy - stay alive  
> Kandosii - honorable


End file.
